


The Muse with the Mojo

by Stultiloquentia



Category: Glee
Genre: Episode: s06e01 Homecoming, Episode: s06e02 Homecoming, M/M, Pining, paisley - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 21:06:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3183158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stultiloquentia/pseuds/Stultiloquentia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt Hummel is an inspiration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Muse with the Mojo

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry in advance. Please blame idhren for the plotbunny.

"Well done, Warblers! Your harmonies are tuned down to the cent, I have never seen more perfectly synchronous step-touching, and your hair could not be shinier," exclaimed Blaine as he pushed himself up off the piano bench and applauded. His flock beamed and wriggled happily, clapping each other on the back. "And yet,"—Blaine held up his hand—"there is still something missing. If you go up against the legendary McKinley High looking and sounding as you do, you will fail. And fail mightily! And—deservedly."

All twelve boys gasped. "But why? Why will we fail?"

"You lack _emotion_ ," said Blaine passionately. "Show choir is all about heart! It's about baring your souls, then allowing the music to transport them away from you and into the tender embrace of your audience, swift and unstoppable as a symphonic poem by Smetana, or a U-Haul on the I-80."

"What must we do, Mr. Anderson?"

"Think about what inspires you! What pulls you up short, sits in your chair, and ruins your sleep! Think of what _moves_ you."

"My stock portfolio?" wondered one boy.

"The waffle maker in the Jefferson dining hall!" cried another.

"Paisley!" decided a third.

"Sure," said Blaine. "Those are great."

"What do _you_ think about when you sing, Mr. Anderson?"

"Yes, Mr. Anderson, what inspired _you_ when you competed against those New Directions?"

"Well," said Blaine, and his fingers drifted wistfully toward the piano keys....

*

"I'm going crazy," said Kurt, to Rachel, with utmost sincerity.

"David Lee Roth, Natalie, or Dizzee Rascal?" said Rachel, not looking up from the drifts and dunes of sheet music covering the floor.

"No, not 'Goin' Crazy,'" Kurt clarified. "I, Kurt Hummel, am going crazy. I just thought I saw Blaine slink past the music room door."

"Well, it's possible he's picking Sam up for a boys' night," said Rachel. "Then again, I'm not sure I've ever seen Blaine Anderson slink."

"He was wearing his Dalton blazer," said Kurt.

"Oh?" said Rachel.

"And there were three of him."

"Ah," said Rachel. "You're going crazy."

*

"His bearing is so regal!" said Teddy.

"His tones so mellifluous!" said Salvatore.

"His shirt is so paisley!" said Julius. "No wonder Mr. Anderson was laid low."

They scurried around the corner and into the astronomy classroom. "I never knew the quest for musicality could feel like this," said Teddy, staring up at the painted styrofoam balls dangling from the ceiling. "Like I've never seen the sky before."

*

"Mr. Hummel!"

Kurt turned. Three dapper, dark-haired schoolboys in navy and red skidded across the parking lot toward him. Kurt clutched his messenger bag to his chest.

"My name is Teddy!'

"And I'm Salvatore."

"And I'm Julius, but you can call me Ju-Ju," the third boy said shyly. 

"We wondered—that is, we hoped—you might do us the very great honor of—"

"Oh, no," said Kurt. "No trying out for the New Directions, I beg of you. Blaine still has my housekey. I don't want to be killed in my sleep."

"No!" came the collective, shocked reply. "We wouldn't dream of betraying our fearless leader."

"We are Dalton men to the end."

"It is our destiny and birthright."

"But that doesn't mean—"

"—we cannot quest far and wide for inspiration!"

"As long as we're home in time for curfew."

*

When Blaine entered the Dalton practice space on Wednesday, instead of being greeted with a burst of song, he found his charges hunched over a laptop. Something that sounded like Sue Sylvester's cheerleading practice shrieked tinnily out of the speakers. 

"Well, boys, are you ready to emote your solos today? Who's up first?"

The first Warbler had chosen to sing "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina," and did so next to the window, staring mournfully out across the grounds until the boy sitting closest to him reached out and whacked his bum until he turned and projected his voice back into the room.

"That was very... lugubrious, thank you, Archie," said Blaine. "Remember to carry the phrase through the high note, and make sure you get enough air in your lungs to do it. No swooping: sad, yes; sad trombone, no. Does anyone else have comments for Archie?"

Warbler number two had picked "Defying Gravity," which he transposed for bass-baritone and delivered in a stentorian bellow in front of the fireplace.

Warbler number three took to the stage. "This is my paean to perseverance and second chances," he announced, to a smattering of applause, and launched into "Being Alive."

Warbler number four pinned a pewter skull to his lapel and informed the room, "I will be performing the seminal work by Paul McCartney, 'Blackb—"

"Dear me, look at the time!" exclaimed Blaine. "I'm terribly sorry to preempt you, Mr. Pahk, but I think it would be best if we waited until next week to hear the rest of the solos. We wouldn't want to cut short anyone's critique, and we still have the Cole Porter/Bryan Ferry mash-up to get through today."

*

"They gave me a pen."

"A pen?" said Rachel.

"With little gold music notes on it."

"Aw, that's sweet."

"One of them offered to pick up my dry-cleaning," Kurt groaned into Rachel's shoulder. 

"Well, that is your least favorite chore," Rachel mused.

"Mercedes and I went to see _42nd Street_ at the revival theater last night, and there they all were, two rows back, in a line, beady little eyes boring into my neck for two hours straight. 'You're Getting to Be a Habit with Me' can never be the same."

"Do you think Blaine put them up to it? Maybe he's sending you a sign." 

"No," Kurt moped. "I asked. They were quite offended, until one of them pointed out that that was not an utterly unreasonable assumption, and then they complimented my deductive reasoning skills."

*

"Do you want Cheesecake Shoppe or Mr. Submersible for lunch?" Mercedes asked, checking the price tag of a velvet bolero and flicking it down the clothes rack.

Kurt looked up from the tray of costume jewelry he was picking through. "The other estate sale is out toward Westerville, and I heard there's a good new Filipino joint to try on the way. Would you mind?"

"Ooh, cosmopolitan," said Mercedes. "Not at all."

"So cosmopolitan," squeaked a small voice from behind a mahogany armoire. Shushing noises ensued.

Cautiously, Kurt peered around the piece and discovered a Warbler, eyes like saucers and one errant curl sproinging free from its shellacked environs.

"Well, there goes our element of surprise," hissed a voice from the top of a nearby bookcase. "Still, a show must go on. Boys!"

And suddenly the room was aswarm with blue-blazered bodies, springing out of cabinets, leaping nimbly between the table lamps, and dangling from the chandelier. The smooth, suave, a capella tones of "Every Little Thing He Does Is Magic" filled the air. Startled bargain-hunters yelped and gawked. 

"I take it back," said Kurt. "Cheesecake. It's definitely a cheesecake day."

*

"Alright, you little creeps!" cried Kurt, smacking his hands down on the piano keys in front of him and levering to his feet with a discordant clang. "Enough is enough! The car-wash party in my driveway was the last straw! If I see you at this school one more time, I'm going to _accuse you of spying on a rival show choir!_ "

"Excuse me?" came an achingly familiar voice from the hall. Kurt swiveled. The owner of the voice backtracked to the choir room door, and Kurt beheld a tailored suit that was, though navy, shot through with a subtle plaid pattern, and the piping was orange, not red. Blaine peered in at Kurt with narrowed eyes.

"Oh! Oh, God. I thought you were—what are you doing here?"

"Picking up Sam for a boys' night," Blaine replied. "Whom did you think I was?"

"Ju-Ju," said Kurt, sinking back onto the piano bench and fisting his hair. "My mistake; you have much better eyebrows."

"What on earth is Julius doing—oh. Oh, God." Revelation blossomed over Blaine's face.

Kurt, not looking at him, just muttered, "I have twelve dapper choirboys following me everywhere like a line of baby penguins, and the only one I want wants nothing to do with me."

"I'm so sorry about this," said Blaine. "I know what's going on. They asked me what inspired me when I sang, and I told them—you."

"Really?" breathed Kurt.

"Certainly, historically speaking."

"Oh." Kurt frowned.

"They must have misunderstood. I didn't mean for them to be inspired by _you_ , but that they should find _something_ in their lives to be passionate about, the way I—well. The way I did."

"Well, maybe my mojo isn't totally desiccated," Kurt tried to joke. "'Cause they sounded great on their Bette Midler number. Passionate, and tuned down to the cent."

"Thanks," said Blaine. "They do work hard. And again, so sorry. I'll talk to them. Item one on tomorrow's agenda."

"It's no problem," said Kurt, looking down again so he wouldn't have to watch Blaine leave. "It was kind of nice to be serenaded again, even if it wasn't, you know, the best I've ever had." 

Blaine's suede bucs tapped back across the tiles, neat as a metronome, then paused again by the door. "Your inspirational mojo isn't dead, Kurt. It never could be." And then he was gone.


End file.
